I'm A Libertine, But It's Not My

Human Memory Is A Marvelous But Fallacious Instrument. The Memories Which Lie Within Us Are Not Carved In Stone; Not Only Do They Tend To Become Erased As The Years Go By, But Often They Change, Or Even Increase By Incorporating Extraneous Features.

After The Planet Becomes Theirs, Many Millions Of Years Will Have To Pass Before A Beetle Particularly Loved By God, At The End Of Its Calculations Will Find Written On A Sheet Of Paper In Letters Of Fire That Energy Is Equal To The Mass Multiplied By The Square Of The Velocity Of Light. The New Kings Of The World Will Live Tranquilly For A Long Time, Confining Themselves To Devouring Each Other And Being Parasites Among Each Other On A Cottage Industry Scale.

If A Writer Is Convinced That He Is Honest, Then It Is Very Difficult For Him To Be A Bad Writer.

It Is This Refrain That We Hear Repeated By Everyone: You Are Not At Home, This Is Not A Sanatorium, The Only Exit Is By Way Of The Chimney. (what Did It Mean? Soon We Were All To Learn What It Meant.)

Perhaps Kafka Laughed When He Told Stories [. . . ] Because One Isn't Always Equal To Oneself.